


The Princess Pride

by Little_Lotte



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Looking Glass, Multi, The Princess Bride - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25215415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lotte/pseuds/Little_Lotte
Summary: A dragon age/princess bride crossover Solavellan AU I made as a gift fic a million years ago."Pride had inherited a modest farm on the outskirts of a small village in the kingdom of Elvhenan, but to tell the truth, he had very little skill or interest in farm work, and much preferred to ride his halla to the next town over, which was quite a bit larger, and spend the day combing through their library in search of hidden wisdom. He had hopes of becoming a scholar one day, though how he was going to manage to raise the funds for such an education was a little beyond him at the moment.Luckily for both him and his halla, the farm was not all he inherited from his late parents. Several years ago, they had taken in a foundling child who, in exchange for her work, was offered her own tiny dwelling on their land and the promise of an acre of it after they passed away. However, in spite of her own inheritance, she continued to work the fields the same as she always had, as though nothing had changed, and Pride was beyond grateful for that, as it gave him the free time to continue with his increasingly difficult search for knowledge.Her name was Lavellan, but he never called her that."
Relationships: Andruil/Ghilan'nain, Desire/Glory, Desire/Thenvunin, Haninan/Ireth, June/Sylaise, OC/OC, Pride/Lavellan, Solas/Female Lavellan, Solas/Lavellan, Uthvir/Aili
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. True Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feynite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/gifts).



The year Pride was born, the most beautiful elf in the world was a maid named Enadahl, who worked in one of the grand palaces in the kingdom of Arlathan. Tall and dark and willowy, it was agreed far and wide that she was the loveliest gem to ever grace the halls of Queen Sylaise.

Naturally, the queen was less than impressed with these rumors, especially when she perceived the king’s gaze lingering on the maid a little longer than she would wish.

Shortly afterwards, the maid was rather suddenly discovered to have stolen several of the Queen’s favorite jewels, and was promptly shipped off to work in a quarry for twenty years to pay for her crimes.

Enadahl’s fine willowy figure became hard and thick with muscles, her delicate hands rough and coarse with several layers of calluses. She eventually married a farmer, who had quite a fondness for her new shape, and needed another strong pair of hands to help her in her work. They lived happily together, but no one ever compared the former maid to a sparkling gem ever again, except, of course, her wife.

When Pride was eighteen, the most beautiful person was named Ghilavir, and they had the most perfectly sculpted features of any elf of the age. Wide slanting eyes, high cheekbones, angular chin. There was even a rumor that one man had gone blind at the sight of their loveliness.

The rumor was actually a bit…misconstrued, as it turned out, because Ghilavir also happened to be renowned for their work in the field of alchemy, as well as for their stunning beauty. The man had crept into Ghilavir’s workshop in hopes of catching a glimpse of their face and had been blinded by the bright flash of a chemical reaction instead.

A few years later, in yet another mishap, Ghilavir’s gorgeous complexion and enviable features were irreparably marred by a rather large explosion. They hardly found themselves bothered with it, as most of their limbs were still intact, and the flood of random strangers trying to break into their workplace finally seemed to have petered off. They spent the rest of their days happily blowing things up and setting things ablaze, more than content with their lot in life.

When Pride came of age at twenty-five, the most beautiful elf lived in a dark cruel place, miserable and alone in a tiny cell. Kept as a pet by a powerful noble. Hardly anyone knew of their existence, except their captor and a pale listless servant who brought them food. Their end was not a happy one, but the noble took comfort in the fact that his prize had remained lovely to the last.

Pride knew nothing about the elf, or his own ranking in terms of beauty, and he would have been far more concerned with rescuing the poor creature than being able compare their looks. He was hardly in the top thirty at this point, anyway, and that was based largely on potential. He was still growing into his somewhat gangly limbs, and more than half the time he was covered in ink blots and halla hair.

Pride had inherited a modest farm on the outskirts of a small village in the kingdom of Elvhenan, but to tell the truth, he had very little skill or interest in farm work, and much preferred to ride his halla to the next town over, which was quite a bit larger, and spend the day combing through their library in search of hidden wisdom. He had hopes of becoming a scholar one day, though how he was going to manage to raise the funds for such an education was a little beyond him at the moment.

Luckily for both him and his halla, the farm was not all he inherited from his late parents. Several years ago, they had taken in a foundling child who, in exchange for her work, was offered her own tiny dwelling on their land and the promise of an acre of it after they passed away. However, in spite of her own inheritance, she continued to work the fields the same as she always had, as though nothing had changed, and Pride was beyond grateful for that, as it gave him the free time to continue with his increasingly difficult search for knowledge.

Her name was Lavellan, but he never called her that.

She had never been much for idle chatter, especially when she had first come to them, hungry and abandoned and grieving, and Pride had spent weeks trying to wheedle her name out of her to no avail. And so he had simply taken to calling her Asha, not perhaps the name he would have chosen if he had been older at the time, but she had never made and objection to it, and after all these years, it had more or less become habit.

“Asha, brush and saddle my halla, if you please”; “I need that list of necessary provisions you wrote up last week, Asha, I’m heading into the village”; “That’s quite enough for today, Asha, the rest of the field can be seen to tomorrow.”

“Ma nuvenin.”

That was all she ever said to him in reply. Ma nuvenin; as you wish. “Could you feed my halla a little early today, Asha?” As you wish. “Did you finish that book from the library, Asha? I need to return it today.” As you wish.

He had offered to let her move into the main house when his parents died, but she had refused him with a silent shake of her head, and kept to her little cottage, spending her evenings alone, occasionally reading when he brought a book back from the library that caught her eye. It was a simple, quiet life.

Pride was bored out of his mind.

The year after he came of age was when he noticed that things had slowly began to change. There had always been one or two people in the village who would stop what they were doing to follow him as he went about his errands, but now it seemed as though half the townsfolk were set on escorting him places whether he wished them to or not, asking him about the weather and his farm, and sputtering as they enquired if they could go riding with him sometime. It really was quite bothersome, but he always tried to divert their attentions as politely as he was able. 

Sometimes they could not take a hint, however, and a little knot of them would cluster outside of his home, laughing loudly and calling out suggestions of how they might spend time with him. When their comments became insulting or more than mildly threatening, Asha always seemed to decide it was time to chop wood up by the main house in what was really a rather threatening manner. Pride was also fairly sure she had actually roughed up a few of the bigger ones, which seemed to make the others remember their manners again. He never failed to thank her when she did this.

“Ma nuvenin,” she would reply, with her steady gaze fixed on his face, and perhaps a slight nod of her head. She was really a fine girl, his Asha.

Besides being annoying, Pride found he was hardly perturbed by his following. By and large, he tended to simply to ignore their presence whenever he was able. And then came the day that they finally got him thrown out of the neighboring town’s library.

The librarian had been very apologetic about the whole thing; he had always had a soft spot for the pretty young man with his thirst for wisdom, but the villagers who had trailed after him into the building were constantly disturbing the other patrons with their giggling and idle chatter as they tried to get his attention. They had also taken to writing love letters into what they supposed to be his favorite books, and a few of them had ever had the gall to climb the shelves in order to stare as him as he attempted to continue his research. It was no wonder the librarian wanted to put a stop to it.

Never the less, Pride found himself rather seriously put out by the whole thing, stomping from the building in a foul temper and riding home without a single book for the first time in his life.

The scene that greeted him when he returned to his farm did little to improve his mood.

Asha was splitting logs down by her cabin, the nights were growing cool and she had likely decided that she wanted a fire in her hearth this evening, and one of the young men from the village was leaning casually up against a nearby tree, admiring her work. Or rather, admiring _her_ while she was working. Pride scowled openly at him from across the fields.

He was the second son of a merchant, vulgar and lazy and somewhat infamous for toying with some of the more timid girls in the town. His name was E-something… Evanuris. Enarin. Elandurin. Whatever it was, he had no business hanging around on Pride’s farm leering at Asha and pestering her while she tried to work.

Because that was most definitely what he was doing. Standing there slavering at the strong lean muscles of her arms as they flexed and stretched smoothly beneath her skin. At the confident way she moved when she swung the axe down to neatly cleave her chosen target. At the faint flush in her cheeks brought on by the exertion. Or so Pride thought.

Then Asha laughed. That conceited pretentious philanderer said something to her and she had actually stopped what she was doing and _laughed_.

Pride was half way down to her cabin before he even realized that he was moving.

“Get off my farm,” Pride insisted harshly, somewhat out of breath. He was already having a terrible day, and this was really the last straw.

“What? Why?” Elandaris ( _that_ was his name) baulked, peddling backward from Pride and flashing a wounded expression in Asha’s direction, clearly garnering for some pity.

“Because this is my land and I do not want you on it,” Pride snapped in reply.

“But this is Lavellan’s part of the property, is it not?” The interloper asked with a knowing smirk. “Perhaps I shall stay until _she_ tells me to leave.”

Pride grabbed him roughly by the collar of his shirt and wheeled around to meet Lavellan’s gaze, his expression radiating a cold fury.

“Asha, I will be depositing this back on the road to the village, do you have any objections?”

“Ma nuvenin,” she replied with a shrug, blinking at him in what seemed strangely like confusion. Pride did not see what there was to be confused about, Elandaris was a creep, and everyone knew it. There was no way Asha could possibly be _enjoying_ his advances, so Pride was simply taking care of it. Rather nobly, he might add. Like a Prince or something.

Pride marched imperiously back toward the road into town, his chosen cargo loudly protesting the entire way as he towed him to the edge of his property by the scruff of his neck. He rid himself of the intruder with one final shove off of his land, wiping his hands together in satisfaction as the other man stumbled into the dirt. He was about to leave it at that when Elandaris had the poor judgement to call out to him.

“I am going to marry her.” Elandaris sneered as he staggered back onto his feet, trying to right his mussed clothing. “I am tired of living with my father, and Lavellan already owns her own land. Not a lot of it, I grant you, but we can always buy you out later. Is that not what you wanted? To be free of this place and everyone in it? Perhaps you should treat me with a little more kindness, since I am helping you, after all. Plus, it would make everything much less awkward once we become neighbors.”

“Asha has far too much common sense to bind all her future hopes of happiness to a man such as you,” Pride informed him, seething.

“And spending the rest of her days slaving in your fields while you wander about daydreaming is a more desirable prospect?” Elandaris asked mockingly. “ _Asha_ is not even her true name. You think that just because a few simpletons find you interesting to look at, that everyone around you must be ready and willing to bow to your whims, and how does that make you any better than I am? At least I am willing to make an honest woman out of her before taking what I wa-”

Elandaris’ unsavory speech was brought to an abrupt halt as Pride’s fist collided with his nose with a sickening crunch.

He discovered that the books he had read about physical combat did not adequately describe just how much blood such a blow would send spraying everywhere. Or how much it would hurt his own hand. Still, Pride could not muster much in the way of regret as he watched the wretch scramble away from him, clutching his face and squealing in pain as he raced back towards the village.

Pride found himself somewhat pensive as he slowly made his way back towards his house, carefully flexing his injured hand. He paused for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep steadying breath through his nose. Crisis averted.

An image of Asha formed in his mind, pausing in her work to wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand as she turned her head to smile at Elandaris.

Pride frowned deeply. Well. …Well, he supposed Elandaris must have some small modicum of charm, in order to meddle with the shy naïve girls of the village as he did. And Asha was very quiet. Inexperienced with things such as flirting and the deceptive flowery words sometimes spoken by prospective lovers who were not truly worth one’s time. Yes, that was it. Surely, whatever slight interest the man had managed to garner from her would surely be quashed once Pride enlightened as to her why he was so awful.

He started walking again, a little more brusquely with this new purpose to fuel his strides. The sooner he took care of this the better, really. Then things could get back to normal. And yet…

The vision of Asha laughing while Elandaris smiled at her would not leave his thoughts.

He stopped again, considering. A sour unhappiness settled in his stomach as the verdant shades of jealousy cast shadows across his handsome features. Because you could only lie to yourself so much, really.

Asha may not be the most verbose, but she was far from naïve. She was steady and sensible, and she was better at managing the farm’s finances than he had ever been. She had a good head on her shoulders. Her strong, well-muscled shoulders. If you liked that sort of thing.

She also had a very pleasing smile, now that he thought about it. The sort of smile that made a little warm curl of contentment unfurl in your chest. Especially if she happened to be laughing while she smiled. She really did have an amazing laugh. It rolled right through you and lit you up from the inside out. And it was rare enough that it really should not be wasted on someone like Elandaris, who clearly did not understand its value. Her value.

Pride started moving again, his strides even faster this time. He clenched his injured hand until it throbbed. _He_ understood her value. Her habits. Her mannerisms. The sort of books she liked. Which was precisely why she should stay here, with him, and not throw herself on the inconstant mercies of someone who only measured her by the worth of what she could give him.

Asha was still chopping wood when she came back into view. He paused again, taking in the sight of her. Her worn clothes and the cracked leather of her shoes. Her shabby little house, slowly falling to disrepair. The easy way her hands hefted her axe, callused where his were largely smooth and soft.

While it was true that he was hardly better dressed than she was, and he was by no means a wealthy man, he could have done more for her. He _should_ have done more for her. She was and always had been his equal, his partner, his friend. And he…had treated her no better than Elandaris, in his way.

She sensed his gaze on her, pausing in her work to turn and look at him, lips quirking up into an uncertain smile. He closed his eyes. She was so beautiful, had he had never even managed to call her by her true name.

It was not too late, surely. He could still fix things between them, apologize and offer her recompense in…any way she would have it from him, honestly. He found he could not bear the thought of her thinking poorly of him. Of not being by her side.

As long as he handled things delicately, there was still hope for him.

“I love you,” he blurted as he finally approached her. His voice was rather loud, and it might have cracked a bit on the final word of his declaration. Asha blinked at him in astonishment. His face burned in mortification.

Right. Well. Earnestness probably counted for something, right? He swallowed thickly before continuing.

“I have only known that I love you for a few minutes, but the longer I think about it, the more certain I am that I must have been in love with you for a very long time. Possibly since I first met you. Or at the very least, since the first time you smiled at me. It is very lovely, you know. Your smile, that is. I am really very fond of it, and…. well, all of you, really. I could write poems about your face and the color of your hair in the sun. I could write songs about your goodness and your strength. I could write novels on the exact way you are looking at me in this instant, and spend three chapters on nothing but your eyes. I could do all of these things, if you want me to. Or none of them, if that is your wish. I will work beside you and share your burdens and your struggles, and every scant luxury I have is yours if you would claim it. As am I. All I ask is that you stay beside me. I am not a merchant, and I cannot promise to bring you fabrics and gems from far off cities, and in all likelihood, we shall always be poor, but Elandaris has a fickle heart and a wandering eye, and for me there is only you.”

Pride took a moment to breathe. Asha was looking at him as though she had never quite seen anything like him, and he was not sure what sort of implications that should give him as to how his suit was progressing. He had never tried to woo someone before, after all. Still, she had yet to shoot him down, which was at least somewhat encouraging.

“Asha,” he began again. “No, that is… improper. It is not your name, and I was wrong to call you so. Your name is Lavellan, and it is as dear to me as the rest of you. Lavellan. Lavellan. Lavellan. My equal. My love. My heart. Please tell me I am not too late to earn your affections.”

Lavellan blinked at him again, her amazement bleeding into something steadier, a distinct softness shining in her eyes. She reached up to touch his face, rough fingers against the smooth skin of his cheek. He sighed with an air of aching hope, and she offered him a single curt nod before turning from him and retreating back inside her little house.

Without a word.

Pride was not quite certain how he managed to make it back to his house and into his room. All he could recall was standing dumbfounded outside of Lavellan’s closed door as a wave of utter despair swept over him. He might have tripped at one point, there was dirt on his trousers that suggested as much, though it was hard to make out through the tears welling in his eyes.

He sat in his room in the dark for the whole of the night, heartbroken and occasionally giving in to jagged bouts of crying. Too late. He had realized his feelings too late. Offered too little. Everyone had sighed and doted on him his entire life, and the first time it really mattered, he was not enough. His disappointment was all but paralyzing, but the more he thought about it, the more he began to consider that he probably deserved her disdain. He imagined that no one in the history of the world had ever felt quite as wretched as he did right now.

Dawn came, and with it arrived a gentle knock at his door. Lavellan opened it a moment later, a travelling pack slung over her shoulder and a concerned expression forming on her face as soon as took in his sullen posture and the wounded look in his bloodshot eyes.

“Pride,” she began, and it was such a bittersweet sensation, to hear his name on her lips even as she came to leave him, “what is wrong?”

“You are going to marry Elandaris,” he sniffed miserably. “Even though he is awful. But I promise to behave myself as best I can. If he hurts you in some way, though, I am going to punch him again. Possibly more than once, depending on what he has done to injure you.”

“…you punched Elandaris?” She repeated, eyebrows rising towards her hairline.

“In the face,” he confirmed with a grim satisfaction. “I do not think I did it very well, my hand is still very sore, but he was talking about you as though you were merely a thing, and I could not abide it. …And then I came to realize that I had not been treating you much better. So, in the end, I am not surprised that you would wish to get away from me. You may leave if you wish, of course, but please do not marry him. He has never done right by anyone he has ever courted, and I could not bear to see him treat you so. ”

“Why on earth do you think I would marry him?” Lavellan baulked in surprise.

“But…he said that he asked you to…” Pride sputtered in confusion.

“And so he did,” she admitted with a shrug, “and I promptly laughed in his face.”

“Ah.” Pride noted eloquently, possibly a little stunned. “That was why you laughed.”

“That was why I laughed,” she agreed.

“But you are still leaving?” he surmised, giving her bag a pointed glance.

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Because of what I told you afterwards?” Pride asked, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“Yes,” she answered him once more. Pride felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach.

“I am so sorry!” He exclaimed with more than a slight edge of panic. “I have never made an attempt to court someone before, though I have read about it on more than one occasion. When you love someone, you are supposed to ask them to marry you, are you not? Did I do it wrong? Was it too soon? Should I have bought a ring first? Did you want me to get down on one knee when I asked? If you tell me what I did wrong, I will try to do it correctly next time. Please, you have known me nearly all my life, there must be some quality of mine you find redeemable. If you tell me what it is, I will hone it and master it and make it almost all you can see in me, only please do not leave. I am certain I can find a way to love you that you will not find offensive, if you will give me time to find it.”

“Oh,” Lavellan sighed at him fondly, moving to take his face in her hands, “Oh, you beautiful ridiculous man, how could you possibly imagine that you had not already won my heart?”

Pride felt as though all the air in the room might have suddenly vanished.

“Then…you love me?” he breathed out quietly, not quite believing it yet, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

“Since the morning we first met,” she confirmed, just as soft, “and a little more every day following it.”

“Why did you not tell me?” Pride asked, taking both of her hands in his, excitement and happiness bubbling up in his chest so forcefully that he was momentarily afraid he would start crying again.

“I did, I did,” she protested, sounding a little shaky herself. “‘Ma nuvenin’, was the first thing I ever said to you, and it made you smile at me, and so I had to keep saying it. Every day, every day. Those were the words I told you, but that was not their meaning. I was saying ‘I love you’, and you simply heard it wrong. I said I love you with every answer I could give you, every word, every breath. I love you. I love you. I have always always loved you. Shall I continue?”

“Never stop,” Pride managed to chuckle weakly. He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing sharply through his nose, and knew that no one in the history of the world had ever loved one another as deeply as they did, and though the thought was fairly biased on his part, it was not wholly wrong.

But his contentment was short lived.

“You love me…and yet you are going away?” Pride questioned a minute later, not quite capable of hiding his hurt.

“The farm is…not doing well,” she pointed out. “Nor has it been doing well for quite some time. The soil is poor and failing, and we do not have the savings to fertilize it in any way that would last. Ever since I first came here, you know that I have been trying to find some trace of my family. Well…two years ago, I found them. They live in the capital of Arlathan, and have asked me to come to them in several letters, but…I found I could not leave you.”

“But you can leave me now?” Pride asked, with a hint of petulance.

“I only have enough in my savings to purchase passage on a ship for one of us,” Lavellan explained patiently. “And I fear that even taking in one person might strain my cousins’ finances, I would not want to impose upon them any more than we have to. Besides, the farm is yours to sell, for as much as you can get for it. I will find a job and a place for us to live together, and as soon as such things are secured, I will send for you and we can get married and you can find work that you actually enjoy doing and visit the city library as often as you please, and no one in the world will be as happy as the pair of us together.”

“No one,” he agreed.

“I…must go,” she said finally, though she sounded unhappy about it. “It will take me nearly a month just to reach a port town, and the sooner I leave, the sooner we can be together again.”

She slid away from him reluctantly and was half way out the door when Pride caught hold of her hand.

“May I kiss you?” He sounded somewhat terrified.

They fell into each other’s arms.

~

The day after Lavellan left, Pride moped about his room feeling very sorry for himself. For all of twenty minutes. Then he realized that he had a farm to run and property to sell, and besides all that, what should happen if Lavellan met some handsome elf in the city who swept her off her feet? Unacceptable.

He took all the farm work onto himself with hardly a complaint, though his muscles objected rather strongly the first week or so. He was still a bit lanky, but the muscles flushed him out until his frame was lean and strong. His shoulders broadened, what little remained of his baby fat melted away, and he seemed to gain a confidence in his own body that made every movement flow like the steps of a dance.

He was quickly moving upwards from his ranking in the bottom twenty of the most beautiful people.

He had skin like wintry cream, and the long days out in the sun, peppered it with freckles in a very pleasing way. His hair was long and autumn colored, and he had never bothered with it much until now, but surely the elves in the city kept themselves neatly groomed and lovely as possible, and he did not wish to embarrass Lavellan when she finally sent for him. So, he made sure to wash and brush it every day until it gleamed.

People from the village started congregating out along the edges of his farm to watch him work, crowding the road enough to stop passing carriages on more than one occasion. Which, in the end, is how the Countess came to know of Pride’s existence. She did not leave the privacy of her coach, choosing to watch complacently from afar. Calculating, as she so often did, for nearly a half an hour before telling her driver to clear the rabble from the road so she could be on her way.

Pride did not notice.

In fact, Pride seemed unaware of most things that did not involve Lavellan these days. He read and reread her letters every night. He rode into the village every day to see if a new message from her had arrived. And, if anyone was foolish enough to ask him about how she was doing, he would chatter at them happily for at least forty-five minutes, telling them exactly how she was. She was brilliant and wondrous and clever, and she got a little sick from the stew in the last tavern she stopped in, but she was strong and hearty and it was not even going to delay her journey for a single day, because that was simply how amazing she was.

His love for her was by and large the real reason his rank was improving so quickly. In fact, the letter he received from her the day she finally reached the port town was so uplifting that he spent the entire day practically beaming, and it shot him up and unheard of three places in a single leap. He was now firmly in the top five. Lovely and loved and all but shinning with the effect of it. She was his first love and his true love and every day he found that his feelings for her had grown in some new and unexpectedly marvelous way.

Which was why the news of her death hit him so hard.

He was heading to the office of the village notary to finally close the deal on the purchase of his farm, when the town crier called out that the Dread Pirate Fen’Harel had attacked another ship on its way across the channel from Elvhenan to Arlathan. And, as was his custom, the brigand had left no survivors alive to tell the tale. 

Pride was in denial at first, riding his halla at a full gallop back to his farm to read over Lavellan’s letters for the thousandth time, because it could not possibly have been her ship that was lost. No. It could not be so. Because she loved Pride and she was going to write to him in a few days and everything would be fine, and they would chuckle about this years later in front of their hearth while they were warm and safe and wrapped in each other’s arms.

No letter came. She was gone.

Days turned into weeks, and Pride could barely rouse himself to eat and take care of his halla. He shut himself away and refused to speak to anyone. The storm of his grief was so dark that it seemed as though it would never pass.

Then, on one not so special day, he took her letters and locked them in a little box and tucked them away in the back of his dresser. Safe and out of sight.

He rode his halla into town and explained gently that he would not be selling his farm after all.

His childish exuberance had mellowed with his grief. The blunt edge of untested knowledge he had won from reading had softened into something much closer to the wisdom he had been seeking for so long. His countenance was mild and forgiving. His eyes were like the sea after a storm, his wounded spirit shining out through them to take in the world with a little less wonder and a little more gratitude.

There was not a single person in the village who could keep their eyes off him.

He was twenty-seven. He was the most beautiful elf in over a hundred years. And it meant absolutely nothing to him.

His halla snuffed at him in concern when they finally got home, possibly sensing its master’s unhappiness.

“I am fine,” Pride assured it, petting the creature gently between its long twisting horns. “We shall both be fine. We will live here and work here and be as content as we are able. …but I must never love again.”

He never did.


	2. Bride and Groom

In the kingdom of Elvhenan, there was a long held tradition that eldest of the royal children was named the Crown Prince, regardless of gender or merit. Queen Mythal and King Elgar’nan had two daughters, twins, both beautiful and terrifying in their way, and Prince Andruil and Princess Sylaise had been at war with one another since they were in the womb. Sylaise was forever resentful that her elder sister had won the right to rule simply by managing to be born a few minutes earlier, and Andruil did not enjoy competition. Well, not with anyone she was disallowed from crushing entirely.

The pair of them hissed and quarreled with each other with such frequency and violence that the King and Queen decided that a rather early arranged marriage between their youngest and the Prince of Arlathan was the only way to stop the pair of them from smashing up palaces and ripping apart sections of Elvhenan’s scenic countryside.

Sylaise was married at the unheard of age of eighteen, and less than two years later the King and Queen of Arlathan had rather suddenly and mysteriously abdicated in favor of the young couple, making her the youngest ruler in more than fifty years. A fact which she happily rubbed in her sister’s face every chance she got. 

Alas, this separation did not quite bring about the peace that the King and Queen had hoped for. While the two nations were still technically at peace, an eruption of petty arguments and old grudges sprung up between them almost overnight. Trade ships mysteriously vanished, ambassadors where insulted and occasionally imprisoned, and every now and then a halfhearted assassination attempt was plotted against either the Queen or the Crown Prince, just to keep them on their toes. Not even an ocean and two continents seemed capable of keeping the two sisters from trying to out-do or undo one another.

In comparison with her sister, Prince Andruil had really very little interest in sitting a throne. She found politics and diplomacy tedious affairs, and would have made a much better general than anything else, but she also enjoyed power, and the pleasure of denying things to others. She lived for combat, for contest, and the chance to test her mettle against whatever nature could conjure up to throw at her. To say that the Prince was an avid hunter would be a vast understatement. A day in which she had not managed to kill some large monstrous beast was a day wasted.

This was by and large how she came to be acquainted with the Countess.

Her name was Ghilan’nain, though she was addressed as ‘The Countess’ more often than not, for she was the only one in the whole of Elvhenan. The title had been a gift from Andruil for her years of loyal service, and as an excuse to keep her almost constantly at her side. She was the Prince’s one true confidant, and she had a great fondness and curiosity for capturing and breeding a vast array of dangerous creatures from around the world and seeing if she could produce an even more horrific abomination than nature had intended.

When one of the Countess’ little experiments went badly, which was often, the Prince was obligated (and truthfully delighted) to track the thing down and kill it before it ravaged the countryside.

This became such a frequent occurrence however, (Since the Prince had no intention of stopping Ghilan’nain and spoiling her own fun) that eventually Andruil sacrificed a portion of her own land to build an underground compound for her companion to keep her creations in and defy nature as often as she pleased, as well as a few wooded areas and arenas to set them loose in so the Prince could have her sport without killing half a dozen peasants. The fond name they derived for it was the Zoo of Death, but the common folk called it the Pit of Despair, and there where many dark rumors that animals were not the only living creatures who had disappeared into its maze-like depths. There were even rumors that the Countess’ own husband had vanished behind its secret door, never to be heard from again.

Which was a mixed blessing, as the Count was a notoriously cruel and wretched man with a disturbing fascination with pain, but if the Prince and the Countess had so few qualms about getting rid of him, it did not seem to bode well for anyone else who happened to get in their way.

Most people therefore tended to avoid displeasing either of them at any cost.

A few months after our ill-fated lovers had parted ways, the Queen informed Andruil that she and the King would be retiring on Elvhenan’s five thousandth anniversary, which meant that it was high time she stopped playing around with Ghilan’nain and picked herself a spouse who was capable of helping her produce an heir. After all, every prince needed their princess.

Now, if there was something Andruil had less interest in than sitting on a throne all day listening to the grievances of peasants, it was the thought of bearing a child. Taking care of a small wailing infant was not high on her list of preferred activities either, though she supposed that was something her husband could do with himself to pass the time. She certainly was not going to actually let him run the kingdom with her, so he may as well be useful for something.

“He probably should not be from one of the noble houses of Elvhenan,” Andruil mused aloud one evening over dinner with the Countess. “Unless he is from a relatively small or powerless family. It would be troublesome if I had to get rid of him for some reason or other and his relatives began kicking up a fuss and rebelled or something. Not that we could not handle them, of course, but there is no reason to make problems for ourselves where we do not have explicit reasons to. Plus, I’ve known most of the male heirs of the powerful families all my life, and they are all insufferable windbags who are far too used to getting their own way, which is not something I plan to give anyone unless it suits my own purposes.”

“Then what sort of man would please you, Your Highness?” Ghilan’nain wondered.

“Well, he needs to be at least somewhat easy on the eyes, since I’ll probably have to look at him at some point,” she hummed thoughtfully in reply. “No, he should be beautiful. Stunning, even. The sort of person who turns heads wherever he goes. He is essentially going to be an extension of myself, and people should look at him and remember that he is mine, and be in awe. Younger would be good, too. Impressionable. Someone who could be trained and molded fairly easily, I do not want to spend too much time breaking him down until he knows his place. I am going to have a kingdom that needs ruling, after all. And I would much rather spend my free time with you.”

“Do you mind if he is of common birth?” The Countess asked, a thin smile of obvious pleasure curling her lips at the Prince’s last comment.

“As long as he meets the other requirements well enough, I would not care if he had been raised by wolves,” Andruil asserted dryly. “In fact, that might make him at least passingly interesting.”

The Countess’ smile widened.

“I think I might know just the man who would suit.”

~

“You are certain he is handsome?” Prince Andruil asked for what must have been at least the fifth time as she and the Countess waited on a hill overlooking Pride’s property one morning a few weeks later. “Because I really do not need the hassle of quashing a dozen mocking rumors about how I could not find anyone better to marry than some ragged backwater crofter.”

“He was covered in dirt and sweat when I saw him last, but the potential appeal was undeniable,” Ghilan’nain assured her.

The Prince was sitting astride a gleaming golden halla, a special breed created by the Countess especially for the purposes of hunting. There were only five others like it in the whole of the world. They were exceptionally large and clever and all but tireless, and no one except Andruil and occasionally Ghilan’nain was ever permitted to ride them. The Countess’ own sleek red elk looked like a worn down beast of burden in comparison.

“You cannot blame me for being somewhat concerned,” the Prince grumbled a bit tartly, glowering down at Pride’s shabby little house and the few acres of land surrounding it which only seemed to be making a halfhearted attempt at growing the plants that had been sown there. “After all, I am the one they will laugh at for marrying a rough necked far-”

Pride emerged from the stables, shirtless, with a satchel slung across his chest and a hoe draped casually over his shoulders. He paused to pull his long auburn hair back from his face and cast a slightly perplexed glance up at the lack of clouds. The Prince’s objections died in her throat.

“No one is going to laugh, I think,” the Countess noted smugly.

“He…will do,” Andruil conceded in a slightly strangled voice a few moments later. “Wait here a moment while I propose.”

She navigated her great golden beast down the hill smoothly, her long crimson riding cloak fluttering behind her in the crisp morning air. She cut a rather imposing figure, Pride thought, as she trotted up to him, studying his face intently with eyes as sharp and eviscerating as any blade. He had never seen such a fierce looking creature… and the halla was rather intimidating as well.

“I am your Prince, and you will marry me,” Andruil informed him without ceremony or preamble.

“I am your most humble servant, and I respectfully decline,” Pride replied softly with a deep bow of his head.

“I am your Prince and you cannot decline,” she snapped back, caught somewhere in between bafflement and indignation.

“I am your faithful subject and I just did,” Pride responded calmly.

“Refusal means death,” she pointed out.

“Then kill me,” he shrugged.

“I am your Prince…and I am not _that_ bad,” Andruil backpedaled slightly, frowning. She was unused to bargaining with peasants, and the thought that this bedraggled farmer would deny her anything was frankly a bit staggering. “How could you possibly prefer death over marrying me?”

“Marriage involves love,” Pride explained, “and…I have found that it is not one of my talents. I tried it once, you see, and things ended…poorly. I have sworn to never love another.”

“Who said anything about love?” Andruil snorted in disdain. “Not me, I can assure you. Listen well: my ever wise and generous mother, the Queen, has decided that in three years’ time, when Elvhenan celebrates the five thousandth anniversary of its founding, I am to take my place as its ruler. There must always be an heir poised to inherit the Kingdom in case of some unforeseen tragedy, but when I become King, this will no longer be so. In order to rectify this problem, I must marry, and manage to have at least one child before getting on with other far more interesting parts of my life. So, you can either marry me and become one of the wealthiest and influential men in over a thousand miles, who throws money at peasants in the streets and hands out whole turkeys on feast days or whatever else may suit your fancy, and help me produce an heir, or you can die a very slow and painful death in the very near future.”

“I will never love you,” Pride told her evenly.

“I would not want it if I had it,” Andruil assured him.

“In that case, I am flattered beyond measure to accept your proposal.”

~

What with one thing and another, three years passed. When the nobles of Elvhenan insisted that the Prince could not actually be allowed to wed a commoner, Pride was rather suddenly discovered to be descended from a small but respected noble family whom everyone had thought died out three centuries ago. He was now Princess Pride of Sulevin.

He did his best to be worthy of the title.

Pride had undergone all sorts of lessons on how to be a King’s spouse, how to sit and stand properly, how to speak with dignitaries, which spoon to use, among other things. Dancing and painting and playing the lyre. Politics and history. Astronomy and magic. He was kept bustling and fascinated and frankly overwhelmed every now and then at the sheer amount of knowledge he had access to.

Back in his own little village, he had always counted himself quite the scholar, and it was rather humbling to learn just how far behind he was when compared to someone born to privilege. The library in the palace was three times the size of the one he had ridden to every day in what now seemed another life. A simpler life. And, briefly, a happier one.

It seemed like so much time had passed, and still, every now and then he found himself setting aside books he thought Lavellan would have liked, partially from habit, and also because it was one of the only ways he had left to feel close to her. He did not have the heart to reread her letters, though it hardly mattered; he had memorized every word of them long ago. 

He supposed there was something to be said for becoming a Princess though. Queen Mythal herself had taken quite a shine to him, and invested herself quite thoroughly in his education, carefully guiding him in things like diplomacy and economics and the Grand Purpose of their fair land. It seemed a bit strange that she was so preoccupied with how he might rule things when the general consensus was that he was just there to look pretty, but, at the same time, it was not uncommon for people to treat him kindly based solely on the fact that he was rather nice to look at, so he did not let it trouble him overmuch.

The people loved him.

Or, at least, they seemed to.

Three months from Elvhenan’s celebration of its founding, and the Prince’s coronation, and consequently, their wedding, Andruil had invited the common folk to the courtyard of the palace in the capital city to meet her intended. There had been a strange reverence in the hush that settled over the crowd when they saw him, but when he left the Prince’s side to walk among them, none of them did more than try to brush him with their hands in passing. It was strange, but not intolerable, and Pride wanted very much to succeed in his new role.

The thirty-year-old Princess far surpassed the twenty-seven-year-old mourner in terms of beauty. Pride had all manner of tailors and hairdressers and valets to attend him and ensure that every inch of him was as pristine and ethereal as possible. His complexion was creamy and freckled and flawless and, in the right lighting, he even seemed to carry a gentle glow about with him. His hair shone like autumn leaves in the sun, long and luxurious and frequently plaited into intricate patterns and offset with little toggles made from various precious gemstones. Every article of his clothing accentuated the lithe muscular frame of his body.

He was a vision.

Pride still found that he did not particularly care if people found him beautiful or not, though he reasoned that might be because he had never had to suffer through the trials of being thought unattractive, but he accepted the care of his physical appearance as just one more duty as a soon-to-be member of the royal family. He threw almost everything he had into his endeavor to please his people and his future in-laws, since life had seen fit to rob him of his own more personal happiness. There was very little left of the lanky farm boy who had all but burst into tears when he had thought that the woman he loved might not return his affections.

A worn wooden box, locked up tight and hidden away in his bedchamber, and his ever-faithful halla.

He still rode his halla every day, come rain or shine. It was his one chance during the day to actually be alone with his thoughts. Mostly he ended up pondering exactly what his life had come to, and whether or not he and his fiancée would ever reach a point where they thought of each other with more than a passing indifference. Queen Mythal had tried to reassure him that the Prince would eventually come to rely upon him for comfort and advice, but somehow Pride did not think that was especially likely. Andruil was hardly even in the same room with him long enough to toss a halfhearted smile in his direction. Still, the Queen had been married for many long years, and he had barely kissed a woman before all of this, so he supposed she must know more about it than he did.

He was about three-quarters of the way through one of these rides one evening as dusk began to cast long shadows through the forest, about a half an hour from the palace, when Pride found himself called to halt for a moment by the strangest trio he had ever encountered. 

The woman…man? - _person_ in front was short and golden-skinned and slender as a blade, swathed all in red from head to toe. Pride almost would have called them delicate, but something in the sharp striking angles of their face spoke of a quiet deadly confidence. They moved towards him with surprising speed, nimble and soundless, but still unarmed and not especially threatening. The other two remained behind them, silent and unmoving. The second figure was quite a bit larger in every direction, full-figured and soft, though there appeared to be a generous amount of muscle on her frame as well. She looked as solid and steady as the broadsword strapped to her hip. The third…honestly looked like he would have preferred the job of being the nation’s Princess far more than Pride did. He had an abundance of long pale hair, and Pride supposed that he was beautiful in his own right, though the absurd number of ruffles and flounces to his clothing detracted from it a bit. He was also quite possibly the tallest, broad-shouldered man the Princess had ever encountered in the course of his life.

“Might we have a word?” the person in red asked in a smooth lyrical voice, their smile closed-lipped and oozing innocence. 

“Speak, then,” Pride responded, trying to sound regal despite his nerves. There was something unsettling about them, but a Princess had to make time for all of his subjects, even the creepy ones.

“We are but poor lost circus performers,” they explained with a deep sigh, batting their eyelashes and furrowing their brows in an expression of distress, making the tall blond one in the back scowl with something like extreme indignation. “Would you happen to know if there is a village nearby where we might find food and lodging for the night?”

“There is nothing nearby,” Pride replied, attempting to appear sympathetic even as he tightened his grip on the reins of his halla. “Not for many miles.”

“Then there will be no one to hear you scream.”

That was all Pride remembered. Perhaps he had screamed, but if so, it had been in alarm rather than pain. The figure in red had leapt at him with swift deft fingers tipped with deadly-looking nails akin to those found on a bird of prey, expertly touching a few key places on his neck followed by a brief flash of what he suspected must be a spell of some sort, and then blackness had claimed him.

He woke to the sound of lapping water.

The blond ruffled elf had him swaddled up in a woolen blanket like a babe and Pride was surprised to feel the definition of quite a few well developed muscles lurking beneath the layers of rustling cloth. He nearly yelped in alarm when he was suddenly dropped rather unceremoniously on the floor of a boat, but managed to hold his tongue. The man smelled vaguely of roses and bore a sour expression on his face, but he seemed blissfully unaware that Pride had woken up, and he decided that the wisest thing to do for the moment was to let them all continue to think he was still sleeping.

“You never said we were going to kill him,” the elf who had manhandled him complained huffily.

“We have been hired to start a war,” the voice of the figure in red drawled in reply, “what else did you suppose we were going to do with him?”

“Hold him prisoner and ask for a ransom… or forget the entire thing and find different work elsewhere,” the tall one suggested, sounding fretful and annoyed. “I think killing him is an absolute waste.”

“Am I going _mad_ , or did the word ‘think’ escape your lips?” the red one snarled. “No one is paying you for your deep philosophical notions, Thenvunin, so I suggest you keep them to yourself and leave things like planning and strategy to those more suited to the task.” 

There was a sound of ripping fabric.

“What are you doing, Uthvir?” came the voice of a woman, and it was somehow just as round and pleasant as the rest of her.

“The same as I did with the halla,” Uthvir said distractedly, “leaving behind some fabric from the uniform from an officer of the Arlathan army. They have a rather distinct look, as is the Queen’s insistence, and when the Prince sees it, she will know that her sister has stolen her betrothed. She will follow our trail to the Wilds of Arlathan, and when his body is discovered out in a field as a feast for crows, there will be no stopping the conflict that follows.”

There came a sound of a flapping sail, and the woman warning the other two to mind their heads, and the feeling of the boat drifting away from the dock.

“I agree with Thenvunin,” she said at length, sounding unhappy. “I do not think we should have accepted this job.” 

“Perhaps you would prefer to return to slumping over a barstool while you drink yourself into a stupor?” Uthvir snapped. They went silent for a moment before sighing and continuing in a slightly weary tone, “I told you, Desire, it was not an offer that could be refused. The money was too good, and the client was too influential to ignore. Starting wars is a prestigious line of work, if we do this correctly, we will have job offers lined up for years to come. Try to focus on the pleasant spoils of the future, if you find the tasks of the present do not suit your tastes.”

“This seems like it will make us more enemies than anything,” Desire noted dryly. “The Princess has become quite beloved.”

“He is not _that_ beautiful,” Thenvunin sniffed. “Still, I suppose we should avoid letting him know of our plans?”

“He already knows them,” Uthvir said casually, turning their head towards Pride, who had not moved for the whole of their conversation. “He has been awake since we got on the boat.”

“Nonsense,” Thenvunin sputtered, “I would have noticed!”

“Oh yes?” Uthvir smirked, walking over and patting Pride’s cheek so that he opened his eyes fully. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

‘Conceited,’ Pride thought crossly. Uthvir laughed at his expression, guessing its intent.

“Quite so.”

They turned their attention briefly back towards their companions.

“Are we going as fast as we can?” Uthvir asked Desire, who had taken her place at the helm.

“As fast as we can while still this close to shore,” she confirmed.

“Good,” Uthvir said with a nod of their head, “we should reach the Arlathan Wilds by dawn, and have just enough time to take care of business and be gone before the Prince and her retinue arrive in pursuit.”

They caught Pride’s eye and grinned, revealing a mouth full of razor sharp teeth.

“I’m afraid you are going back to sleep now, Princess.”

~

Pride did not know how long he remained unconscious, but when he woke, it was dark and they were still in the boat. This time, before he even gave himself half a moment to think about what he was doing, he flung himself over the side and dove deep into the black waters of the Elvhenan Channel.

He held his breath as long as he dared, swimming away from the vessel full of assassins without even the slightest idea about where he was going. Eventually he had to surface or drown, and the sounds of his limbs breaking the water drew cries from the ship behind him.

“Which way did he go?” growled the voice of Uthvir.

“Someone should go in after him!” from Desire.

“Uthvir is the best swimmer,” Thenvunin pointed out frantically.

“And _you_ are the most expendable,” they hissed in reply.

Pride continued to work his arms and legs through the water in a frantic bid to leave them behind. His muscles ached with the effort as his heart thundered loudly in is ears. All those lessons, and not one on long distance swimming!

“I think I hear him kicking,” Desire said.

“Veer left!” Uthvir called out, sounding irritated.

Pride switched to a breast stroke, and continued to move farther away in silence. Uthvir cursed.

“If we don’t find him soon, something else will,” Desire warned.

Pride rather wished she had not mentioned that. One of Ghilan’nain’s more ambitious little projects was several large shrieking sea serpents that were meant to sink ships from Arlathan, but mostly just attacked whomever they pleased. The Prince had taken care of a fair few of them, but there were rumors that a handful of the still prowled the waters of the channel. 

“I have heard that the Countess’ little gifts are like sharks when they smell blood in the water,” Uthvir commented, clearly knowing he must still be within earshot. “Do you know what happens when a shark catches the scent of blood, Highness? They go mad. They frenzy. They are beyond all control. We are all rather safe here in our little boat, but if you do not come back, I will take a knife and make an offering to our underwater friends and… Well, you will not be beautiful for very long after that.”

Pride paused, treading water quietly as he considered his options. It could have simply been his imagination, but he almost thought he could hear the swish of giant tails moving through the water, churning it around his legs in deadly warning. He certainly had no desire to be torn apart by creatures of the deep, but he could not really see why returning to a boat full of murders was any better.

“If you are wondering why coming back might be a better option for you,” Uthvir said, somehow seeming to guess his thoughts without even being able to see his face, “I will swear to you on my very life that the end you meet at my hands will be swift and free from pain. I doubt the sea monsters would be willing to extend you such an offer.”

There were definite sounds of something large moving through the water now. Possibly more than one something. And a thin garbled screeching rising up from the depths, almost as if questioning, seeking him in the dark.

Pride felt a tremor of fear shake through him, and for a moment he found himself completely paralyzed, unable to swim away or shout for rescue even if he wished to.

“Uthvir, you got blood on my shirt, you savage!” Thenvunin complained shrilly.

‘I do not believe them,’ Pride decided, ‘If they really tossed blood in the water, the creatures may attack their ship as readily as they might come after me. They would not risk that. If I keep swimming, I can still get away.’

“They have nearly a whole cup of blood in their hand,” Desire called out in warning.

“I am poised to throw it into the water,” Uthvir confirmed shortly after. “This is your last chance to give us your location so we can fetch you back into relative safety.”

‘I shall not make a single noise,’ Pride thought coolly, turning from the sound of their voices to continue on his way.

“Farewell,” said Uthvir.

There was a loud plopping slap of liquid hitting liquid.

Then there came a long pregnant pause, as if the entire world was holding its breath.

And then the serpents went mad.


	3. The Price of Glory

Then the serpents went mad.

The water around Pride roiled as if he had suddenly been dropped into a pot over an open stove. The creatures’ shrill cries were growing steadily louder, and he felt his courage being to quail despite his best efforts. After all, being torn to bits by sea monsters is hardly a pleasant way to die, but he kept his silence rather admirably, and tried to prepare himself to meet his end. He thought of the color of Lavellan’s eyes.

Luckily for both the Princess and our story, it was at this precise moment that the moon decided to peek its head out from behind the clouds and illuminate the dark waters of the channel as well as the pale face of the young man bobbing in them.

In less than a minute, the assassins turned their boat and, before Pride even had time to make a fuss about it, one of Thenvunin’s long, strong arms was reaching down into the sea to fish him out and drag him back onto the deck, shaking with both cold and the strange trembling aftershocks one feels shortly after a brush with death. Uthvir hissed with apparent irritation as they strode over to the pair of them, tossing the blanket they had wrapped him in earlier back over the shivering princess.

“I suppose you think yourself incredibly brave,” they drawled out, arching a brow and crouching down in front of their captive.

“Only compared to some,” Pride answered with a defiant tilt of his chin.

“I can’t believe he didn’t scream,” Desire muttered to her companions, sounding mildly impressed.

“He would have,” Uthvir assured her, “These pampered types all start blubbering once they have been sufficiently frightened.”

“But I did not scream,” Pride pointed out stubbornly, “The moon came out. Your plan failed.”

“True enough,” they allow, leaning in closer, somehow managing to loom over the princess despite their smaller stature, a cold smirk stealing over their features, “but I wonder how long you would have held your tongue once those serpents had gotten a taste of you?”

“That…would have ruined your scheme of baiting the Prince with my corpse,” Pride reminded them with only the faintest tremor in his voice, trying to conceal how much they unnerved him. Uthvir shrugged.

“I’m certain we would have found a way to improvise.” 

They turned away from him, moving to the prow of the vessel.

“Ah,” Uthvir sighed with and air of smug satisfaction, and perhaps the slightest hint of relief, “The Cliffs of Insanity. Our destination is in sight at last. I thought your little swim with the serpents might have robbed us of too much of our precious time, but, fortunately, I made certain allowances for any…mishaps when arranging things, and we should still have a comfortable lead on our pursuers.”

They grinned back at Pride, “Are you not pleased, your Highness?”

“You are…certain no one could be following us yet?” Desire asked from her place at the stern, peering back at the moonlit waters behind them.

“It would be…” They paused, as if searching for the proper word.

“Inconceivable?” Thenvunin suggested.

“I was going to say, ‘highly unlikely’, but as you like. No one in Arlathan knows what we intend, and no one in Elvhenan could have tracked us so swiftly. It would be _inconceivable_ , as our witty friend so aptly stated,” Uthvir replied, smirking widely at Thenvunin, who frowned and flushed quite thoroughly and sputtered something inarticulate, which they decided to ignore as they turned their focus back to Desire. “Out of curiosity, why do you ask?”

“Oh, it’s nothing in particular,” she assured them in a dry tone, “I just happened to look behind us, and something was there.”

“ _What?_ ” Uthvir snapped, all traces of amusement evaporating as they quickly strode to the back of the ship to see for themselves.

Another vessel, even smaller than their own, with a dark hull and black sails fluttering quietly in the nighttime breeze, was indeed bobbing in the waters of the channel some distance behind them, with a single figure manning the tiller. If Pride craned his head far enough over the side, he could see it. He should have felt elated at the hope of rescue, but something about that dark shape on the water chilled him to the very marrow of his bones.

“There must be another reason for them to be out here,” Thenvunin insisted, standing behind his fellows with a puckered expression as the other boat steadily continued to trail their wake. “You…do not suppose it might be brigands, do you? What do we do if they ambush us?”

“It hardly counts as an ambush if we can see them coming,” Uthvir pointed out, sounding amused at the suggestion, “Besides which, you could likely lift that entire ship and everyone in it above your head and crack it open like a walnut, you ridiculous creature.”

At this last comment, Pride shot the tall flowery elf a wide, disbelieving glance, reassessing him from top to bottom. Thenvunin blushed again.

“I’m sure it is merely some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruse at night, through shrieking serpent infested waters,” Desire said sarcastically, eyeing the vessel with mounting concern. “…I think they’re gaining on us.”

“Hm, I wonder if they are using the same wind as we are?” Uthvir drawled, frowning.

“You seem rather unperturbed about all this,” she noted sourly. Her companion shrugged.

“In the… _inconceivable_ event that they are even following us in the first place, if we are overtaken before we reach our destination, we will simply have to overcome whoever happens to be in the other vessel to continue on our way. I have faith in our skills,” Uthvir explained calmly. “And if we manage to reach the cliffs first, which I am all but certain we will, they will have no means of pursuing us further. To imagine that anyone on their ship would just happen to be as strong as Thenvunin and capable of following us up by our method would be…” they paused to flash a smirk at the taller blond, “ _Inconceivable_.”

“Stop using that word!” Thenvunin snapped, clearly rankled.

“No,” Uthvir replied, their smirk growing more insufferable by the minute. “I like it. It’s mine now.”

“You cannot simply decide that you own a word, Uthvir!” Thenvunin insisted shrilly, “They belong to everyone.”

“So, you are trying to tell me it is…inconceivable?” they asked sweetly.

The overly-frilled elf hissed and sputtered in a manner that reminded Pride of some sort of large, enraged, waterfowl. Recalling a rather unfortunate incident with a swan in one of the palace gardens, the Princess found himself recoiling farther away from the squabbling duo, turning to watch the sheer thousand-foot rise of chalky white cliffs grow ever closer.

By the time the cliffs were near enough to take over a fair portion of the sky above them, Pride felt a trill of unease at the thought that they were all going to smash into the rocks, for there was no visible sign of any dock. He tilted his head back, trying to see the top, as the pale watery light of predawn began to lighten their surroundings. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, dizzy, before glancing behind them.

The black ship was still there, and undoubtedly gaining on them. Pride swallowed thickly.

“Look sharp now, Squish!” Uthvir called back to Desire, finally breaking away from baiting their other companion.

“On it,” she shouted in return as she expertly maneuvered their vessel through the perilous rocks and the tall shoots of blinding ocean spray. The ship lurched dangerously close to the cliff face, Uthvir leapt forward, and suddenly there was a rope in their hand, as if from nowhere. Pride blinked in astonishment, as the assassin in red tugged at the thick rope, checking to make sure it was safely secured to whatever they must have tied it to before the beginning of this endeavor.

“Good,” Uthvir said with a satisfied nod of their head, “Fast now; if our wayward fisherman truly has decided to pursue us for some reason, we must reach the top and cut the rope before they have the opportunity to follow us.”

“The Cliffs of Insanity are said to be at least a thousand feet high,” Pride protested, “You cannot possibly expect me to be able to climb-”

“Silence!” they hissed at him. “Bind him,” they directed Desire, and then, turning to Thenvunin, “Sink it.”

As directed, Desire came over to him and bound his hands and feet together with strong careful hands, checking several times over that he was secured properly. Meanwhile, to Pride’s utter amazement, ruffled, rose-scented Thenvunin reached up, snapped the mast of their vessel like a twig, and jabbed it down through the hull as though it were little more than wet paper. It immediately began to sink.

“Load him up, Desire,” Uthvir barked as Thenvunin left the floundering vessel and took the rope in his hands.

At this, Pride, who was at least a head taller than the full figured woman who had tied him up, was lifted like a sack of flour and slung around Thenvunin’s surprisingly broad shoulders like a newborn lamb. Having done this, she tied herself about his waist, followed shortly afterwards by Uthvir reaching up and wrapping their arms around his neck, holding fast.

Thenvunin shook himself a little, took a deep breath, and began climbing the rope. He was carrying three people and, as Pride had mentioned earlier, the cliffs must have been at least a thousand feet, but while he appeared a bit flushed, he hardly seemed concerned about the task before him.

To be quite frank, when it came to physical prowess, there was not much that he ever worried about. And Thenvunin was quite the habitual worrier. He worried about his clothes. He worried about his hair. He worried about his pet birds to near distraction when he had to be away from them on a job, which was often. He worried that people only saw him as some brutish, broad-shouldered thug, though to be fair, he was not entirely certain what he wanted them to see him as either. Useful, perhaps. Even capable, under the right circumstances. And he most definitely wanted to be thought beautiful. And he worried about that, too. That he was not.

But strength had been his ally for a long time now, though it had not always been so. Which was part of the reason he reveled so much in it, more likely than not. He could take a kick in the chest from a halla without a stumble. He could crush whole melons between his thighs with ease. He had once hefted an entire drake for more than a mile without even straining the muscles of his back.

Thenvunin’s true might lay in his arms, however. There was not a pair to match them in the whole of Thedas. Not only were they rather impressively muscled, and surprisingly quick, but they were utterly tireless. If he had been handed a hammer and told to crush a whole face of a mountain into rubble, he might have passed out from hunger or exposure, and his legs might have given up on him after a day or so, but his arms would be just as fresh tomorrow as they were today. No matter how he may have fretted about the shape of his shoulders, Thenvunin could never quite bring himself to lament the state of his arms. 

Even with his ungainly burden hanging strangely from his form, he hardly felt put upon. In fact, Thenvunin was secretly quite pleased, though he would never admit it, for it was only when he was called on to use his strength that he felt wholly confident in what he was doing.

Up and up he pulled them, one hand over the other with sinuous ease. Higher and higher until they were nearly two hundred feet above the water.

Uthvir was not happy. They were the most uncomfortable of all of them, even taking into account Pride’s general fear that he was about to be killed, for if there were two things they disliked, it was close contact with someone that they were not wholly in control of, and trusting someone else with their life. There was a very loud part of themselves that was frantically trying to come up with some way to extract themselves from the situation.

But this was hardly perceptible in their countenance. For fifteen long years, they had trained their mind and their body and their words to be sharp and quick and clever. Have no weakness. Show no fear.

Some private part of them might have been railing against the situation at hand, but the rest of them was caught up in the enigma presented by the figure in black.

No matter how they tried to puzzle it out, there was no explanation for how someone had managed to follow them from Elvhenan so quickly. And yet those black sails had appeared behind them like the shadow of a ghost. There was simply no accounting for it. They took a deep calming breath and glanced back down at the water.

The figure in black was still there, sailing towards the cliffs at lightning speed. They could not be more than a quarter of a mile behind them now. Uthvir frowned.

“You need to climb faster,” they hissed in Thenvunin’s ear.

“I _am_ going faster!” he insisted, cheeks darkening inexplicably. 

“Then your faster needs to get faster!” Uthvir snapped.

“Maybe I could move more quickly if you stopped trying to distract me!” he accused, but his arms were undoubtedly moving with more haste than they had before. “I cannot even see how far up we are with you hanging in my face like this!”

“We’re more than half way there,” Desire attempted to sooth him, “You’re doing wonderfully, Thenvunin.”

“And yet our pursuer continues to gain on us,” Uthvir ground out.

They were at more than six hundred feet by now. Six hundred and twenty. Six hundred and fifty. Thenvunin’s untiring arms pulling them along faster than ever. Seven hundred feet.

“They’ve gotten out of their boat,” Desire informed them. “They’re starting up the rope after us.”

“I can feel them,” Thenvunin huffed, “Their weight pulling at the bottom. How fast are they at climbing?”

“Frightening,” Desire grimaced.

“Inconceivable,” Uthvir breathed.

“I told you to stop using that word!” Thenvunin shrilled.

The figure in black was all but flying up the rope behind them. Already they had scaled at least a hundred feet. Perhaps more. And gaining all the while.

“Perhaps I will stop using it when you start doing your job to satisfaction!” Uthvir hissed, slowly becoming noticeably unnerved.

“I am carrying three people,” Thenvunin replied, quailing slightly under such direct scorn, “They have only themselves to-”

“Perhaps you would like to be the one to hand that excuse to our client went we fail?” Uthvir interrupted with a snarl. They cast another look downwards. The figure in black had eaten up another hundred feet between them. They turned their gazed upwards instead. The tops of the cliffs were starting to come into view. They were so close to being safe, a hundred and fifty feet at most.

Trussed up like one of the Prince’s prize kills and rather sick to his stomach, Pride was uncertain what outcome to hope for. The figure in black was nearly as unsettling to him as they were to his captors. And a tussle on a rope over nine hundred feet above nothing but rocks and sea hardly seemed like it could end with anything but death for all of them.

“ _Fly, you fool!_ ” Uthvir shrieked. “Only a hundred feet to go.”

Thenvunin flew. He did his best to clear his mind of everything, but the rope and the steady movement of his hands. His fingers gripped and his muscles flexed and his arms pulled them up and up as the rope held taught and true.

“They’re more than half way up,” Desire said with an air of horrified awe.

“They’re more than half way to their death,” Uthvir snapped in reply, “We are less than fifty feet from the top, and as soon as I can untie the rope…” They laughed. It was a very forced sound.

Thenvunin shot up the rest of the distance to the top in a blur, and before Pride knew it, Uthvir had leapt away from them and raced towards a thick, sturdy-looking tree to which the rope was tied. Thenvunin carefully pulled the Princess from his shoulders while Desire untied herself from his waist and went to the edge of the cliff to peer down at their pursuer.

The figure in black was less than three hundred feet away and closing in.

“It seems almost a shame,” Desire noted with a frown, “Someone with such skill deserves a better end than-”

She abruptly stopped talking as Uthvir untied the final knot of the rope from around the tree and it went slithering past them like some great serpent on its way over the cliff edge. It whipped around as though waving them all a fond farewell before spiraling down towards the grey choppy water.

Uthvir stood stock still near the tree, sharp eyes gazing at the spot where the rope had vanished, rigid and tense. Waiting.

“…They did it,” Desire whispered. Uthvir cursed, stalking over to join her in looking over the cliff edge.

“Did what?” Thenvunin wondered, coming to stand beside them.

“They released the rope in time,” she clarified, pointing down, “See?”

“Inconceivable,” Uthvir murmured. Desire made a face at them.

“You know, I’m starting to think Thenvunin may be on to something,” she said dryly, “You really need to stop saying that word. Every time you declare something to be inconceivable, they turn around and find some new impossible thing to do.”

“Spoil sport,” Uthvir replied with a faint humorless smirk. Their eyes drifted towards Pride. “Ah, but we are being dreadfully rude, aren’t we?” They walked over and hauled him to his feet, tugging him over so he could see the figure dangling from the cliff face.

“There is no need to be cruel, Uthvir,” Desire admonished frowningly. “I thought we were in some terrible rush?”

“Just a moment now,” they responded flatly, “I cannot imagine this will take too terribly long. A person has risked their life to reach him. Do you not think he owes them the courtesy of witnessing their death?”

Pride stared down at the individual in question, perplexed, and perhaps just the slightest bit nauseous from the ordeal of coming up the cliffs himself. As much as it galled him to even consider it, he supposed that Uthvir may not be wholly wrong in their assertions. He still had no notion of who the figure in black could be; whether they were a secret guard the Prince had sent to watch him, or some local sellsword who had seen him being carried off and flown to his aid. That deserved something from him, surely.

…Or perhaps they were merely another assassin who would make no coin unless they brought back his head themselves.

Still, he felt something heavy settle in his chest as he looked down at them. He had no desire to watch them die, and yet, he could not quite bring himself to turn away either. The figure in black shifted, and Pride’s heart leapt into his throat. Even as far away as they were from each other, he was almost positive that they had caught sight of him. That they had locked their gaze with his own.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, unable to bear it any longer.

“…I don’t believe it,” said Uthvir a moment later.

“Are they…climbing?” Thenvunin gasped.

And indeed, the person hanging so precariously from the cliff below was somehow still rising up towards them. Not gracefully, or even with much in the way of haste, but by some strange magic, their hands were finding holds in the clefts of the rocks, and they were now perhaps another fifteen feet closer to the top.

“Uthvir, I swear, if you say that this is inconceivable as well, I am going to hit you,” Desire promised.

“I am afraid you would have to catch me first,” Uthvir countered with a wry twist of their lips, “However conceivable our little friend’s antics may or may not be, I suppose our time to admire them has passed. Thenvunin, take custody of the Princess. Desire, you stay here and see what fate has in store for our impossible pursuer. If they fall, fine. If not, the sword.

“I’m going to fight them left-handed,” she informed them mildly, already stretching her arms and rolling her wrists in preparation.

“What happened to that pressing concern about our lack of time?” Uthvir wondered, seeming slightly amused.

“I don’t like that we accepted this job in the first place,” she reminded them coolly, “You can at least let me handle my own end of things the way I want to. It will end too quickly if I use my right, and someone who manages to get up that cliff on their own deserves half a chance.”

“As you like,” Uthvir sighed,” But kindly keep in mind that they are not our only pursuer. Some amount of haste would be prudent.”

“Understood,” Desire nodded.

Thenvunin shuffled over to her with Pride slung over one shoulder like a sack of flour. He cast a dubious glance at the figure still slowly making its way up the sheer face of the cliffs. His expression puckered, apparently having just noticed something.

“They are wearing a mask,” he told Desire with a tight frown. “People in masks are either brigands or… _Orlesian_. They cannot be trusted. …Be careful.” He looked extremely uncomfortable.

Desire laughed and leaned up to kiss his cheek. Thenvunin sputtered.

“Only for you, pretty boy,” she promised with a wink. Her companion bore an expression of utter mortification, quite clearly about to launch into a tirade of complaints about such inappropriate behavior when Uthvir interrupted them.

“By all means, take your time,” they drawled out, “It is not as though we will be executed in some horribly painful manner if we are caught. I hear that Prince Andruil is generally quite merciful.”

“I’ve never heard that,” Thenvunin said, moving to join Uthvir, who was swiftly striding further inland, their eyes taking note of the brightening sky warily.

“That is because no one has _ever_ said it,” they informed him dismissively.

The sound of their bickering faded away as they made for the wide expanse of the Arlathan Wilds, leaving Desire alone with the figure in black gradually ascending towards her.

~

Desire was born in Antiva City, the daughter of a well-respected blacksmith. Her childhood was filled with the sounds of passionate merchants calling out to potential customers, the heat of the sun, the smell of the sea, and swaggering _bravi_ always looking for a fight. When she was small, she had loved listening to their stories, the duels and the deaths, the scrapes with Crow assassins and the sordid love affairs they seemed to thrive on as they hung about her father’s workshop, waiting for a new sword or breastplate they had ordered.

When she was ten, the new King and Queen of Arlathan began a movement offering many incentives for artists and craftsmen to come to their country, hoping they would use their talents to transform their land into a place of beauty and wonders. Her father and mother spent many weeks debating the matter, but in the end, the opportunity for greater wealth and higher social standing saw Desire and her family packing themselves and their belongings into a wagon and leaving the country of her birth behind.  
  


Arlathan was much milder in some ways, and much more dangerous in others. They never quite reached the social strata her mother had dreamed of, but by the time she was fifteen, her father had finally gained enough reputation and coin to be able to take on an apprentice.

This was how she met Glory.

If ever a person had looked like they had been woven from sunlight and starshine, it was Glory. Fair-haired and azure-eyed and skin like polished gold. The first morning she had walked down into her father’s workshop and seen them working at the forge, sleeves rolled up and covered in sweat, Desire felt as though she must have strayed into a dream. And when they turned and smiled at her, she knew that she had met the great love of her life.

They were a few years older than she was, but neither of them were of age just yet, so they took their time with their courtship. Unfolded their hearts to one another slowly, like a spring flower blooming one soft petal at a time. They were young, and they thought they had forever.

And then, one fine spring day during her twentieth year, a nobleman and his wife came to commission a sword. Both of them were clearly foreign, and using names that were not their own. But one look at the fine cut and fabric of their clothing, along with the fat purse of gold clutched in the lady’s hand, was enough to convince the blacksmith and his family of their importance.

One of her father’s more prestigious claims to notoriety was his skill at smithing with rare and unique materials, and the couple in question had come to them with starmetal, which was nigh unbreakable once it had been forged into a blade or a suit of armor, but shaping it from its raw form into anything useful was nearly impossible. Still, her father would not be daunted. Indeed, if anything, he was excited at the thought of working for such clearly powerful people on such a unique challenge, and called in his apprentice to take the material back to the workshop while he discussed designs and prices with his clients.

The nobleman, like so many others before him, took one look at Glory and was entranced.

At first, this was no great cause for alarm, as it was hardly the first time one of her father’s clients had taken interest in his lovely young apprentice. They usually spent a few weeks plying them with gifts and flowers, and when Glory made it evident that their heart was not easily to be swayed, they moved on. But the man kept coming back, week after week, demanding something else be changed or added to the weapon he had commissioned, and refusing to leave until Glory came out to speak with him.

Neither Glory nor Desire’s father had much choice other than to acquiesce to the man’s orders, though when the harassment became an almost daily occurrence, the blacksmith had to insist that the noble’s social calls be limited to times when his workshop was not open. He hoped that it would at least make the visits less frequent, but instead, the noble merely began waiting for Glory outside of the shop every evening without fail.

But it was not until Glory directly defied his wishes in order to spend time with Desire that he became truly menacing.

Threatening notes. Dead animals left in their bedchamber. A group of thugs chasing Desire down an alley, robbing her and breaking her arm. They tried to go to the guards for protection, but they were told that there was not sufficient proof to detain the nobleman, promising instead to begin an investigation into the disturbances. It never went anywhere. 

The final straw was when Glory returned home one evening after another long day of work and harassment to discover that their entire family had vanished without a trace. When they levelled accusations at the noble the next day, he merely granted them an oily, unpleasant smile and promised them that if they went with him, he would keep them protected as well as help them locate who had taken their kin. He continued by noting that there were still other people Glory was close to, after all, and they might find themselves at risk the longer they waited.

The threat was painfully obvious, and Glory had run out of options and means to refuse.

“I will find you,” Desire swore when they came into the workshop to collect a few of their things and say goodbye. She took their face in her hands and kissed them, tears streaming down her face, furious. “No matter where he hides you. No matter how many years it takes, I will find you, and we will be together again.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Glory replied with a faint smile, clearly without much hope of her success.

The next day, the sword was finally finished, and the nobleman’s wife came to claim it without her husband or his new… _attendant_. She gave Desire something of a sneer as she made to leave, and the smith’s daughter saw red.

Desire ran up to her, pulled the newly finished blade from its sheath, and brandished it inexpertly at the noblewoman.

“Give them back,” she snarled fiercely, “Make your husband release Glory, ort I’ll kill you here and now.”

“My, aren’t you a fiery little thing,” the woman laughed, completely unperturbed. “But of course you realize that I could have you executed for even airing such a thought aloud. Go home. Buy yourself a pretty dress with the money your father just earned. Bake a pie, or whatever else you peasants do to amuse yourself, and forget about your lovely friend. I guarantee that by now they are far beyond your reaching.”

Desire roared in furious grief, charging forward and swinging the sword with all her strength. The woman made a sharp gesture with her hand, and a blast of powerful magic struck Desire full in the face, knocking her to the ground with blood pouring out of one of her ears. The noble tugged her roughly to her feet, glaring at her coldly with mismatched eyes. It would have been impossible to tell from far away, but one of them was a rich amber color, while the other was a deep piercing gold.

She pulled a slender knife from some cleverly concealed pocket of her robe and pressed it to Desire’s throat, just hard enough to break skin, sending a trickle of blood trailing down into her collar.

“You have spirit,” the noblewoman commended her, “And, despite your rash temper and your flailing, your form is not bad. You may yet make something of yourself someday. But you also have a rather appalling lack of manners, and that is going to get you into trouble someday if you are not careful.” She fixed Desire with a cruel cutting grin,” So, I think I shall leave you with a little present, to remind you that good manners are not something to be neglected.” 

The noblewoman’s blade flashed, and a moment later Desire was back on the ground, the delicate tip of her already wounded ear sliced cleanly from her head. To her credit, Desire managed not to scream, or even so much as whimper, she simply sat in the dirt, clutching the side of her head and scowling at the woman who had maimed her.

“Keep the sword,” the noblewoman said dismissively as she stepped into her carriage, “Consider it as payment for robbing your father of his apprentice.” She offered Desire a final parting wave of her hand as she drove away.

Desire managed to spit at the retreating coach before she lost consciousness.

When she woke, it was the next morning. It took another full day for her ear to stop bleeding, and another week for it to heal enough for the pain to stop. After that, she sold everything she had of value besides some travel clothes and the precious sword made of starmetal and, despite the adamant protestations of her parents, began her search for Glory.

After a few months of nothing but dead ends in Arlathan, she came to the conclusion that the noble couple had most likely returned to their home country…wherever that happened to be. She also came to the realization that, without the proper training, knowing where Glory was being held would be of very little use to either of them if she came riding in to rescue them and was cut down instantaneously.

Desire returned to her home country of Antiva, and trained with any _bravi_ or sellsword she could find. She built her strength and endurance. She studied every book on swordplay she could get her hands on. She learned to fence with an Orlesian rapier, an axe, a mace, and a flail. She spent an entire year under the tutelage of a Nevarran Dragon Hunter, until the broadsword at her hip was an extension of her arm, fluid as water and faster than a bolt of lightning, until there was no one who could stand before her.

She spent seven long years training, holding onto the contacts she had made over the course of her travels through friendship, favors, and coin, keeping an ear out for any gossip about a cruel nobleman who was married to a woman with heterochromia, until there was hardly a Master Swordsman in Thedas who had anything left to teach her. One by one she had sought them out, and one by one she had learned to defeat them, until there was nothing left, but for her to search for Glory in earnest.

There was only one problem: she could not actually seem to find them. _Any_ of them. It had never occurred to her that someone who looked like Glory would not be the focal point of any area they happened to be inhabiting, and pairing that with the somewhat vague descriptions she had of the noble couple, Desire had assumed that once she turned her focus to the search entirely, it could not take her more than a few months to locate the parties involved, rescuing one and having her vengeance on the other two. But alas, she was mistaken.

For the first six months or so, she kept her spirits up rather admirably, but after trekking through all of the Free Cities, and the rough terrain of the Anderfels, she began to doubt that she would ever find them. Another sweep of Antiva and out to the shores of Ravain sank her spirits even farther.

And then, three years after she had begun her hunt, and a full ten after her lover’s disappearance, she dreamt of Glory.

They were back in her father’s old workshop, the cool light of early morning pouring in through an open window igniting their fair hair into something of an ethereal halo around the perfectly formed features of their face. Glory paused in their work, looking up to smile at her, reaching out a soot-covered hand to touch her cheek.

Desire woke with tears streaming down her face, knowing somewhere in the deepest quietest part of her heart that her love had been slain.

She was in an inn in Ferelden at the time, and began that day with a pitcher of ale to steady her nerves. And then she began to have one every night with her supper to help her sleep. And then a few more with her lunch to help her digest her food. And at some point she began drinking most of her meals. Her life began to taste of nothing but failure. She continued her search, hoping to at least have the satisfaction of killing Glory’s murderers with her own two hands, but it all began to feel somewhat pointless. She would duel the local Masters with whatever weapons they pleased, and buy her necessities off the coin she won, but they were nothing. It took barely a fraction of her skill to defeat them, and brought her no closer to the end of her quest. There was no satisfaction in her victories. She took on lovers here and there, in some vain attempt to forget her sorrow in a haze of pleasure, but in the end, they were nothing. They were not Glory, and nothing could change that. Nothing could bring them back to her. 

She was empty. Hollowed out, and all but waiting for her own death to find her, nothing except the distant burning hatred she felt for the woman with mismatched eyes and her vile husband could even get her to stir out of bed some mornings.

And this was more or less the condition Uthvir had found her in. A marvelous angry sot who could have out-dueled anyone, so long as she was sober enough to find her blade.

At first, they plied her with more alcohol, and an almost embarrassing amount of praise, but after a while they began to ween her off of the drink. They had a plan, you see, that with their cunning, her blade, and Thenvunin’s might, they could form a band of criminals for hire the likes of which the world had never seen. Which is precisely what happened.

They were still largely only known in the underground of society, of course, but every job they undertook was completed with flawless precision. Nothing was beyond the three of them together. She was sober again, the starmetal sword gleaming in her hand just as quick and sure as ever. Thenvunin’s strength grew more and more prodigious with every passing month. The sound of their names were quickly followed by whispers of fear and awe.

But Uthvir was the one in charge. Without question. They plotted and schemed and cajoled clients and contacts in ways that Desire could never even have dreamed of, and she knew that without them she would have barely made it off of her barstool, let alone become a member of an infamous group of felons. It was not exactly the role she would have chosen for herself, but it was far better than being a drunkard, surely. And she owed it all to Uthvir.

Which was why when Uthvir told her to kill someone, any other possibilities had ceased to be an option. Uthvir’s plans were always right. Always the quickest, cleanest way to do a job. So, regardless of whatever admiration she might have felt for them, Desire knew that the figure in black had to die.

~

Desire paced along the top of the cliffs, her impatience growing with every passing minute. The figure in black was still gradually inching their way up the rocks, jamming their hands into whatever nooks and crevices they could reach before seeking out the next. Over and over. Higher and higher. Careful and cautious and painfully slow. It was fairly evident that they were not likely to fall, so their duel seemed imminent, and knowing that, even if she had no real wish to end their life, Desire preferred to have the business over and done with sooner rather than later. She had waited for enough things in her life, often to disappointing and infuriating results, and found that she did not particularly want to wait for anything else.

Desire cracked her knuckles, rolled her shoulders, pulled her sword from its scabbard and tried a few swipes. The figure in black had ascended another four feet or so. Desire squinted, trying to make out if they had two different colored eyes. They were a bit small to be the nobleman, but the possibility of the wife was still viable. …maybe.

Another six feet.

Desire frowned. Her fingers twitched. She turned to survey the surrounding terrain. Rocky, but relatively flat. Enough to keep her on her toes, but nothing overtly challenging.

Another eight feet higher, still at least forty-five from the top.

Desire sighed wearily, sheathing her blade.

“Hello there!” she called down when she found she could wait no more. She received an annoyed grunt in reply. Well. She supposed that was understandable.

“I’ve been watching you.”

Another grunt with an accompanying nod.

“I couldn’t help, but notice that the going seems rather…slow,” she noted.

“Look, not to be rude, but if you couldn’t tell, I’m a bit busy at the moment,” they replied gruffly, in what Desire was fairly certain was a feminine voice. Though that did not necessarily mean anything. “So, I’d appreciate it if you could avoid distracting me.”

“Sorry,” Desire said with a wince. A third grunt.

“I…don’t suppose there is any chance of you speeding things up a bit?” she asked after another few moments of watching them struggle.

“If you are so interested in hurrying things along, you could always find some rope or tree branch to lower down to me,” they huffed at her with some obvious heat, “You know, something actually useful. Just as a thought.”

“I could,” Desire agreed uncertainly, “though I suspect you might not be all that interested in my assistance, since I am only waiting around up here to kill you.”

“I admit, that…does not inspire much confidence in your willingness to help,” the figure in black responded with a snort. “I think you’re just going to have to wait.”

Desire watched them continue to climb. So. Slowly. She felt like she was about to tear her hair out by the roots.

“I could give you my word as an Antivan?” she offered, slapping her hands against her thighs in agitation.

“I’ve found that heritage is a poor basis of trust,” they panted out, pausing to rest for a bit.

“Oh, come on!” Desire pleaded, “Don’t stop now, you’re so close to the top!”

“This isn’t exactly easy,” they explained dryly, feet dangling in the open air, the whole weight of their body supported by the strength of their hands still wedged firmly in the rocks. “In fact, I am feeling rather ragged, all things considered. Never fear, though, another fifteen minutes or so, and I should be able to continue on my way.

Desire fought the urge to scream.

“Look, we’ve got some spare rope up here that we didn’t use before,” she said with an edge of mild desperation, “I can lower it down to you, and-”

“Afraid not,” the figure in black interrupted, “There seems to be a frighteningly high chance that you’d just drop the rope and let me go tumbling to my death. Since you’re in such a rush to kill me and all.”

“Doesn’t my honesty in telling you that earn me something?” Desire wondered.

“I hope you aren’t too offended, but…no,” came the reply.

“Isn’t there any way you’ll trust me?” she asked.

“Nothing really comes to mind,” the figure in black ground out.

Desire raised her right hand high. Her face solemn. Her voice calm.

“I swear on the soul of my one true heart, my poor stolen Glory, you will reach the top alive.”

The figure in black stared up at her for a long time. Pensive and silent. Considering.

“Throw me the rope.”

Desire eagerly went about doing as she was bidden, rushing over to the tree that she and her compatriots had tied the rope they had used for their own ascent, and grabbed the spare section they hadn’t needed and hurrying back to the cliff edge. She anchored the rope around a sturdy-looking rock and lowered it down. The figure in black caught it with a deft ease, Desire pulled, and in a few minutes the stranger was safely at her side.

“Thank you,” they said with a deep sigh, reaching for the blade strapped to their hip even as they staggered to keep their feet.

“We’ll wait until you’re ready,” Desire said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Again, thank you,” they returned breathlessly, sinking down onto a rock to rest.

“Why are you following us, anyway?” Desire wondered.

“You appear to be transporting some fairly precious cargo,” the figure in black noted casually, not meeting her eyes.

“We have no intention of selling,” she informed them.

“That is your prerogative,” they replied coolly.

“What do you want with him?” she asked in turn, genuinely curious.

They met her gaze, but held their tongue. Between the mask and the bandana wrapped around their head, all she could really make out was their eyes (which unfortunately looked to be the same color) and the hard line of their mouth. Still, she thought she could discern something of a kindred nature in this stranger. A similar sort of heartache. She lifted a hand to trace the contours of her maimed ear.

She took another glance around the little plateau, taking note of the roots and shrubs that might catch her feet, and scattered boulders that might be good to dodge around for a quick escape. And of course, there was always the cliffs themselves. She was already planning footwork, and where she could try to press them back if they actually proved to have some skill with a blade.

Which Desire was beginning to rather desperately hope that they did.

It had been so long since she had faced a worthy opponent. Too long. She did not want another mindless few minutes of fighting with someone who barely knew how to hold a sword, only to cut them down without breaking a sweat. And something about this stranger made her hope all the more powerful, too. There was an aura to them. A nobleness. She wanted to give them a good death.

The figure in black got to their feet and stretched.

“Are you ready, then?” Desire asked.

“As ready as I can be, I suppose,” they replied, pulling their sword from its scabbard and taking it in their left hand, “And thank you again for allowing me to rest first.”

Desire smiled, and took her sword in hand too. It would be her weak hand against the stranger’s strength. Good. That made things more fair.

“That is quiet a remarkable blade,” the figure in black commented with a hint of awe.

“Its name is Starfang,” Desire said with a grin, holding it up so they could see how the pale morning light danced along the edge of the blade and ignited the gems set into the basket hilt, “My father made it for a nobleman and his wife from the metal of a star that fell to the earth. It is hard as steel and as light as a wisp of cloud. However, by the time it was completed, they had proven themselves…unworthy of it.”

“Ah,” they replied, sensing that this was not a subject to be breeched, “Well, I have never seen its equal.”

“You seem a rather decent sort,” Desire admitted, her smile turning somewhat rueful, “I hate to kill you.”

“You seem a decent sort yourself,” they answered with a respectful nod of their head, “I hate to die.”

“The inevitable outcome for one of us, I’m afraid,” Desire smirked, “Begin!”

Their swords touched for a moment, and then the figure in black was instantly settling into a series of defensive maneuvers, trying to reduce the movement of their feet. It seemed like a sound enough strategy, given the terrain. She obligingly countered with an appropriate attack, though it momentarily seemed to catch her opponent slightly off guard. They adjusted quickly enough, though, and came back a few moments later with an attack of their own.

Desire was _thrilled._ It had been ages since someone had actually managed to mount any sort decent offence against her. She let them press her back towards a group of bushes and a few skinny trees, allowing them to build up some confidence, blocking and parrying the blows with relative ease. 

She dodged and spun quickly around a tree, startling the figure in black and moving back on the offensive. They lost their footing, but only for a moment, and hastily moved to deflect the fresh onslaught. But they were forced back, moving parallel to the cliff edge until they reached a large group of rocks, hedging them in.

Desire lunged, and Starfang slid up against the stranger’s forearm, tearing at their sleeve and leaving a faint line of red in its wake. Only a glancing blow really, but still, first blood was hers. She grinned. 

Her adversary instantly made to retreat from the enclosed space of the boulders. Desire let them move as they pleased. Unconcerned. Confident in her own ability to check them again at any time.

The figure in black moved into the assault again without warning, using a technique Desire had never seen. It seemed somehow to be a mix of several different attack methods rolled into one. She remained calm, taking her time to dissect the various movements, searching for a weakness, even as the stranger forced her back towards the cliffs.

Things were getting a bit dicey, but she thought she had finally found a fairly simple way to counter the onslaught that her opponent was meting out. She let them have their last few moments of triumph. Life was full of so many disappointments, after all.

But then when she finally pressed back with her counter, the figure in black blocked her. Undaunted, she tried again. Blocked! 

Over and over, no matter what she tried, her adversary always managed to turn her blade away.

Desire was still not rattled though, but she did have to make a few rapid decisions, what with the rather sudden drop looming behind her. In close quarters, it was clear that she had a least some advantage, despite the differences in their statures, but there were plenty of other ways to account for that. Most people had not spent the majority of the last fifteen years doing nothing but study and practice swordplay, after all, even if they had some talent for it.

“You are most excellent,” Desire commended them.

“Thank you,” they returned, “I’ve worked very hard to become so.”

“And it shows,” Desire assured them, one foot perilously close to the cliff edge, “I admit you might be better than I am.”

“Then why are you smiling?” the figure in black wondered.

“Because I know something you don’t know,” she answered blithely.

“And what’s that?” they asked.

“I am not left-handed,” Desire replied with an almost feral grin. And then she deftly shifted her sword from one hand to the other, instantly turning the tide of their match.

Now it was the figure in black’s turn to be pressed back. To struggle against the furious marvel of Starfang flashing and weaving in Desire’s hand. They attempted to side-step. To block and parry. To muster some sort of counter attack. But nothing worked. There was no escape from the starmetal blade and its mistress.

They now had a nick on their left thigh, and another slice at their right shoulder. Desire pressed them back towards the boulders. It was clear that their end was all but inevitable. They took note of the crowded space and made a low grunt of displeasure before making a mad dash back towards more open ground. Desire took the opportunity to begin herding them back in the direction of the cliffs.

They were wounded and losing, but they showed no traces of fear. Nor did they beg for any sort of mercy. They were brave, and Desire was glad to have offered them a chance at a good death. They were a worthy opponent.

“You…are truly amazing,” the figure in black panted out.

“Thank you,” Desire beamed, sweat trickling down her face as she increased the already blinding movements of her sword, “It took many years of effort.”

It was time for the death blow. The cliffs were looming at their back, and they were still managing to turn her blade aside, but Desire’s wrists were tireless, and it was clear that the strength of the figure in black was beginning to flag.

“You seem to be sporting a fairly cheerful expression for someone in your circumstances,” Desire noted, mildly puzzled.

“Ah,” they replied, their smile widening exponentially, “That would be because I’m not left-handed either.”

And just like that, they also passed their sword into their other hand, and now the battle was joined in earnest.

Desire began to retreat.

“Who _are_ you?” she cried out with the first tremble of fear.

“No one worth taking note of,” they replied casually as they moved farther and farther from the dangers of the cliff edge.

“I must know!” she exclaimed, snarling as the figure in black finally landed a glancing blow of their own stinging along her left arm.

“Life is full of disappointment.”

They were both little more than blurs of movement along the open part of the plateau now, the blades in their hands all but invisible. And Desire felt as though the world must be about to crumble into itself at any moment. Because she was losing. She was _losing_! She tried to force the fight back amongst the shrubs and trees, but she was deftly thwarted. And when she tried to move back into the relative safety of the boulders, that was denied her as well.

The figure in black held the clear advantage on open ground. A hair faster. A fraction stronger. A dozen other tiny ways that added up to her defeat. They were not much, but all together it was enough.

She would not back down however. She would not concede that she was beaten until there was truly not the slightest hope left for her. She had made a promise to Glory, after all. That she would find their captors and avenge them. And she still meant to honor it, if she could. Even now.

A final flash of the figure in black’s blade sent Starfang flying from Desire’s hand. She stood there for a moment, stunned and helpless. Then she sank to her knees. Bowed her head.

Beaten.

“Do it quickly, if you please,” she requested flatly.

“You have been nothing but noble and courteous,” the figure in black declared, “And it would be a crime for me to destroy an artist such as yourself over something that appears to be so strictly business. Unfortunately, I can’t have you following me either…”

So saying, they struck her soundly in the back of the head with the butt of their blade, knocking her unconscious. They then bound her hands and feet around a nearby tree before offering her prone form a courtly bow.

“Believe me when I say you have earned my utmost respect.”

And with that, the figure in black picked up Uthvir and Thenvunin’s trail and chased after them at top speed, heading further inland towards the Arlathan Wilds in the strengthening daylight. 


End file.
